


Last First Kiss

by The_Wavesinger



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Chance Meetings, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Timey-Wimey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-05-30 17:46:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19408249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Wavesinger/pseuds/The_Wavesinger
Summary: Jack and Steve meet, and meet again.





	Last First Kiss

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rivulet027](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rivulet027/gifts).



> The title is from the One Direction song because I was earwormed and now everyone gets to suffer with me.

**May 6** **th** **2012, some hours after the end of the Chitauri Invasion**

Steve is idling in the lobby of Tony’s Stark Tower, trying not look (but they do, now, because he’s in the future). The Chitauri almost levelled parts of Manhattan to the ground. He’s selfishly glad their attack was concentrated, that Brooklyn, at least, wasn’t hit that hard.

(Not that the Brooklyn that exists is  _ his _ Brooklyn, but. It’s the sentiment of things.)

He should go to bed. Tony’s offered them all space to sleep in the non-destroyed (or at least relatively non-destroyed) parts of the tower, and there’s a space of downtime between the various meetings and debriefings he’s expected to attend. That all of them are expected to attend.

The future isn’t that different from his time in that respect, at least.

He can’t sleep, though. For reasons he won’t think about. Instead, he’s staring at the stretch of the lobby where various besuited people are walking back and forth, SHIELD and other government agents temporarily working here, Steve thinks.

His vision is blurring over and he’s about to give up and go upstairs, find somewhere that’s not a bed to stretch out, when a flash of familiar blue catches the corner of his eye.

He turns automatically towards the sight.

A man in an RAF greatcoat is striding through the lobby. An RAF greatcoat from seventy years ago, which shouldn’t exist here, in this time and place, in the future. But it does, and the man wearing it is walking right towards Steve.

“Steve!” His voice is familiar—too familiar, Steve thinks. His accent is clipped and American too, contrary to what he’s wearing. His face is open and friendly, as if he knows Steve, as if he’s seeing Steve after a long time, which is wrong. So, so wrong. Then, more composed, “Sorry. Captain Rogers. I’m Jack Harkness, working with UNIT. If I could have a word?”

“I—” Blue eyes, messy black hair. A flash of something settles at the pit of Steve’s stomach. “UNIT?” Of all the deluge of acronyms he’s been newly exposed to, UNIT isn’t one of them.

“United Nations Intelligence Taskforce.” The man flashes a badge. “SHIELD isn’t a big fan of us, but we’ve been clearing up messes like this a lot longer than they have.” He grimaces as if at an unpleasant memory. And that mouth. It tugs at some part of his memory, a long-buried meeting.

“James Harper!”

The man—Jack Harkness—frowns. “I’m sorry?”

Steve shouldn’t have blurted out the name like that, but. “James Harper. Your—father? Grandfather? I met him, once?” Two years and a lifetime ago, on some mud-drenched field somewhere in Europe. He still remembers that man. “He was working for—Torchwood, I think it was? On loan from the RAF.”

Jack Harkness’ face darkens. “Torchwood is ancient history now.” He speaks heavily, as if to ward some memory away; clearly there’s some history there Steve doesn’t understand. “I  _ am _ related to James Harper. Though I hadn’t heard his name for a long time now.”

Old family history, Steve surmises. And it’s still a shock that  _ old family history _ for this man is two years ago for him. “You look exactly like him.” Steve can still remember that face, burned into his memory like a brand.

Jack Harkness shrugs. “I’ve been told so.” Then, “Do you mind if we move out of here, Captain Rogers?”

Steve hesitates. “Yes, of course, but they’re not letting anyone without proper clearance upstairs.” (He’s not sure who  _ they _ is right now. Someone launched a nuclear warhead over New York, though, so maybe it’s better not to be sure.) As an afterthought, “Call me Steve.”

Jack Harkness nods, gives him a half-smile that Steve would almost call flirtatious. “Only if you call me Jack.”

“Of course.”

He’s led out of the building—an agent on door duty gives him a consternated frown, but doesn’t say anything—and into a small diner across the street which is miraculously open. Or not-so-miraculously, given the steady stream of government officials carrying take-out containers from the diner to Stark Tower.

“How are you holding up, Steve?” Jack H—Jack asks after both of them have settled into dusty booths.

“I’m sorry?”

“How are you holding up?” Jack repeats, slower. “You’ve been pushed seventy years into the future, and you just fought a big battle to save the world. I can’t imagine that’s a piece of cake.”

_ That’s need to know and you don’t need to know _ is the first thought that crosses Steve’s mind. But he’s learned enough in the last two years to bite his tongue at least a little bit. “You can’t imagine. Jack.”

Jack dips his head. “Of course not. I’m sorry.”

But there’s a glint in his eye Steve could call amused, or knowing, and he doesn’t like the idea of either. “Sorry, but what exactly do you need to talk to me about?”

“Ah.” Jack’s hands disappear into the folds of his coat. “I know this is a long shot, but—was there a man, humanoid male, working with the Chitauri? Or a humanoid woman?”

UNIT, whatever it is, must be very well-informed. Either that or Jack isn’t who he says he is. But Steve trusts him. It might be stupid of him, but he trusts him just from that long-ago memory of his grandfather. “Thor’s brother—he was behind all this.”

Jack shakes his head, almost impatiently. “Not Loki. This person would’ve been calling themselves  _ Master _ or  _ Missy _ .” 

“No. And I don’t think any of the other saw this person either. I’m sorry.”

“I knew it was a long shot.” Jack shrugs. “But I had to ask. So. Thank you.”

“This person is a criminal? Like Loki? Not from this world?” Despite himself, Steve is curious. He’s tired and his mind is fuzzy at best, but there’s something niggling at the back of his mind. He wants to know.

“In a way.” Jack rubs his wristwatch (a large, unwieldy-looking thing, especially compared to the devices Steve has seen people carry). “ But I don’t think it’ll be an issue for you. And if it is I’ll let SHIELD know.”

That doesn’t seem nearly an adequate enough guarantee to Steve, but he’s also not the one hunting down whoever this Master person is. If he even exists. The sudden burst of energy that fueled his curiosity is gone, replaced by a tiredness that sinks into his bones like lead. He tries to stifle a yawn.

With not much success, because Jack catches it and smiles wryly. “I’ve kept you from your bed enough, it seems. I’ll be off.”

Steve tries to protests, but he really is suddenly exhausted. So instead they exchange farewells. One of Jack’s hands drops onto Steve’s shoulder for a second, and the pressure and warmth burn through layers of cloth like a brand.

Jack is, Steve thinks, watching the broad span of his back as he walks away, quite good-looking. Much like James Harper before him.

“Jack?”

Steve calls out without thinking, and he’s not very loud, but Jack hears. He turns back. Tilts his head in question.

“You really do look like James Harper _.” I’d like to see James Harper again _ , is the unvoiced thought.  _ I’d like to see any one of them again. _

Jack smiles grimly. “Thank you.”

Then he disappears.

Steve blinks.

But no. Jack isn’t there anymore. He’s—gone.

Steve rubs at his eyes. There’s an explanation, he’s sure, but he can’t summon one right now. He really, really needs to go to bed.

—

**December 2014**

_ We need you, _ Tony had said,  _ we need the Avengers. The world needs us _ .

The thing is, Steve thinks, tossing his phone back and forth as he sits on a bench outside his apartment (the apartment he barely ever touches, but Sam is with family for Christmas), he’s not wrong. There are offshoots of HYDRA everywhere, hideouts and remnants and contingencies. But Bucky dragged him out of the water. He saved him. It would be a betrayal of that flash of his old friend to stop looking now. Even if the search is exhausting, every new lead a new blazing flash of hope that’s inevitably followed by disappointment.

He drops his head into his hands. This isn’t a decision he wants to make.

“Mind if I sit down?”

The voice is familiar, and Steve looks up to find—“Jack!”

It’s been more than three years, but Steve still remembers that smile and those eyes. Although. It’s strange. He looks  _ younger _ .

“What are you doing here?” Someone from three years and a lifetime stumbling across him should be a coincidence, but it doesn’t feel like it. And he doesn’t want it to be one, for some strange reason. “You lost?”

Jack laughs. “No. I was looking for you, actually.”

Something in Steve’s chest tightens. “Any more aliens running around you think I’ve seen?”

“Unfortunately not.” Jack drops down onto the seat, right next to Steve, their bodies almost touching. “But I did want to see how you’re doing. I know we met each other just the once but—”

“—Thank you,” Steve interrupts hurriedly. “I honestly appreciate it.”

“I’m not stalking you,” Jack says. “If you’re worried about that.”

Jack is really, really close to Steve. Steve drags his mind away from the shape of Jack’s body, forces himself to reply, distractedly, “Not that I mind the occasional stalker, but everyone seems to know where I live these days. Or at least where to find me.” He thinks of Tony dropping in. It’s not a feeling he likes.

“Ah.” Jack frowns. “If you want me to leave, I will. The last thing I want to do is bother you.”

“You’re not bothering me.” Steve realizes he’s worrying at his nailbeds, forces himself to stop before they start to bleed. “Someone visited me and now I have to make a decision I don’t want to. I don’t mind you.” Even if he doesn’t know Jack. (Except, for some reason, it feels like he  _ does _ know him.) 

“Oh,” Jack says again. Then, “Not the kind of thing you can flip a coin over?”

Steve smiles wryly. “Not really. I just—what do you do when you have to choose between the right thing to do and…someone important to you?”

Jack swallows and looks away, and suddenly every line of his body is suddenly tense. He’s holding himself like he’s hovering above a grenade that could go off any second. Or like he’s standing in the aftermath of the blast.

“I’m sorry,” Steve begins, but Jack shakes his head. “No. I was—remembering something. But Steve, what do  _ you _ want to do?”

“I don’t know,” Steve says. He doesn’t know, and that’s the problem right there. He owes Bucky, but he also has an obligation to follow through on burning anything HYDRA tainted down to the ground and salting the earth afterwards. And he’s so tired. “And what I want doesn’t matter anyway. It  _ shouldn’t _ matter.”

“I’ve found,” Jack says slowly, “that it matter what you want, a great deal more than you think.”

What Steve wants is for Bucky to be here with him and not the Winter Soldier, and for Peggy to remember who she is, and for HYDRA to be dead and gone with nothing of it left behind. None of those things are going to happen, so there’s no point in thinking about what he wants.

But he doesn’t want to argue with Jack, and that, at least, is a want he can achieve. “Do you remember much about James Harper?”

Jack blinks. “Why do you ask?”

“Because.” Steve shrugs. “You look exactly like him, you know. And I met so many people during the war, and I don’t remember most of them. It’d be nice to know something of who he is. Was.”

Jack is silent for a long while, and Steve thinks maybe he’s pressed too close, made it too personal. But just as Steve’s about to apologize, Jack says, “Steve, James Harper never existed.”

That’s—

That’s just not true. Steve saw James Harper with his own eyes, talked to him. He was living, breathing flesh, and certainly a human being who  _ existed _ . 

Steve opens his mouth, but Jack continues. “A long time ago, a brilliant girl wanted me to live a little too hard, and she ended up making it impossible for me to die. James Harper was me. That’s why I look so like him.”

That’s wrong. That’s impossible. Jack is lying, because it can’t be true that anyone person can live forever. That’s simply not possible.

But then, Steve was frozen in a block of ice for seventy years. He’s met aliens and demigods seen the world almost end. Not possible isn’t something he can say with certainty about anyone or anything.

And there’s a ring of truth to Jack’s words, a honesty that Steve can  _ feel _ . It feels like this is already something he knew. “Okay.”

Jack stares at Steve. “ _ Okay _ ?”

“Okay,” Steve repeats, and he’s more and more certain as he speaks. “You’re James Harper. Or, James Harper was you. Whatever it is, whoever you are, I believe you.”

The expression on Jack’s face is inscrutable. “Wow. I didn’t even have to get shot and revive for you to believe me.”

The words send a shudder through Steve. The idea of Jack being hurt feels  _ wrong _ . But he thinks (hopes) he hides that well enough that Jack won’t see. “That doesn’t happen often, does it?”

Jack shrugs. “Shooting is one of the least creative ways of killing someone, I can say that for sure.”

That’s an avoidance. Steve knows it’s an avoidance. But it’s none of his business. “Yeah, being drawn and quartered must be a lot more interesting.”

Jack winces. 

And—really? Steve is suddenly morbidly curious even as he very strongly doesn’t want to know. At all. “Or, I don’t know, being tickled to death. Certainly a lot more imaginative than shooting.”

Jack laughs. “Oh, I don’t know, I could probably make a case for being chewed on by a rat.”

That is disgusting, and Steve makes sure to tell Jack that, with feeling. 

Jack laughs again, moves closer to Steve. It must be biting winter cold, Steve decides, that makes goosebumps rise even under his parka when Jack’s arms brush his.

But goosebumps aside, Steve decides as Jack launches into an anecdote about a jousting tournament, this is—nice. More than nice. It’s  _ good _ .

— 

**2017**

The creature is nothing Steve has ever seen before, many-tentacled and scaled and a blur that he can barely make out even as he throws his new shield (a gift courtesy of T'Challa) at it.

They quite literally stumbled upon the creature, Steve and Sam and Nat, in front of an old mill in a rundown, abandoned district they were scoping. It jumped on Sam almost immediately, trying to reel him in with its groping slimy pseudo-arms.

Now Sam is diving at it from above, but Steve realizes quickly that at that angle all he's going to do is make it ooze more slime. Natasha's weapons never quite penetrate it. And Steve's shield is gone, buried in some depth of its slimy body.

All the battles and fights and skirmishes they've won, all the near-death escapes they've had, and they're going to be bested by a tentacled slime monster.

A shot rings out. Then another. And the monster dissolves into a puddle of slime and goo, a melted morass of...something. Whatever it was.

Steve looks up automatically, but Sam has landed and is staring at the remains of the creature, just as puzzled as Steve.

Then Steve's shield comes flying at him. Granted, so does a voice that says "Catch!", but Steve still barely manages to catch the metal triangle(ish shape) reflexively. 

But the swirl of the greatcoat and the brown-booted feet that pick their way through the mess are very familiar.

Sam and Natasha have their weapons trained warily at the newcomer. Steve can't blame them; if it was anyone else Steve would be right there with them, but it's not anyone else. It's Jack Harkness, in Massachusetts in Worcester of all places to be. 

"Stand down," Steve tells them.

"What?" Sam yelps, at the same time Natasha shoots him a look that says  _ are you fucking crazy _ .

"Stand down," Steve repats. "I know him. He's an old friend."

Then, before things can get more tense, Steve jerks his head at Jack. "Come around the corner with me." To the others, "We're just going to talk. I won't be long." (Because, given his past experiences, he won't be. It's a honest promise he feels he can make.)

Sam and Natasha don't look very happy about this, but they still make no move to actually be aggressive to Jack or to prevent Steve from taking off, so Steve calls it a win with how overprotective Sam and Natasha have been recently.

They round the corner he and Sam and Natasha had just taken before they encountered the tentacle creature. Steve is about to fall into their pattern (twice or thrice might be a coincidence, but a fourth time is a pattern, a ritual) when he notices the blue...phone box? It definitely looks like a phone box at least, though there's lettering on it that Steve can't make out. And the small issue of the fact that the last time Steve passed this place the box hadn't been there.

Jack follows Steve's gaze to the box. "Ah. I'm. Hitching a ride with a friend, sort of."

"The type of friend who travels in a box? Whatever kind of box that is?" Does that thing even have wheels? Steve can't see it properly, but he thinks not.

"Yes, actually. My friend's a little bit eccentric." 

An indignant "Oi!" from the inside of the house is followed by an even more indignant "Stop listening in!" from Jack.

"No disappearing with a flash of light?"

"Not at all." Jack's tone is carefully even, and he's rubbing at his old bulky watch in an absent-minded way. "And that doesn't matter right now."

Steve has cleay missed something. Still, he has more important concerns right now. "Jack, what was that creature?"

"Something you've never seen before."

"I  _ know _ that." Steve hates patronization. And Jack might not be patronizing him, but he's being cagey enough that it's damn close.

"I can't tell you," Jack says. He's calm, too calm. Carefully calm. "Sorry."

But he doesn't sound very apologetic. "If it's some kind of experiment—"

"No," Jack interrupts. He spins around so his back is to Steve. "No. Steve. It would be entirely useless for you to know, it would only scare you. And there are people to deal with this kind of thing, usually. This just slipped their radar."

"I'm one of the people who deal with this kind of thing," Steve points out. That's all they've been doing, Steve and Natasha and Sam, hunting down and fixing the kind of problems that would usually have been too minor to be in the Avengers' purview. The non-apocalyptic events.

"You don't have to deal with everything," Jack says. He takes Steve's hand in his, in a tight, crushing grip. 

It's. It's painful (Jack's grip is surprisingly strong), but it also sends a warm tingly feeling through his body and he has to force himself to drag his mind back to the present. "That thing was trying to kill us. I think we should know what it is."

"Whatever this kind of thing is," Jack says, and now he's actually holding Steve's hand, and he's turned back to Steve, standing so close their shoulders are almost brushing, "you trust me to deal with this, don't you?"

And the thing is, Steve does trust him. So he can only sigh.

"It's going to be okay, Steve," Jack says softly. "Remember that, won't you?"

He sounds far off, like he's talking to someone else. "It's fine now, Jack. I mean, this isn't perfect, but me and Sam and Nat, we're fine."

"You'll  _ be _ fine." Jack presses his forehead against Steve's, cups his face with his hand.

Steve stays perfectly still. Holds his breath.

"Jack!" a voice calls from inside the box. Jack's mysterious friend, Steve assumes. It's like being suddenly doused with a bucket of cold water. (Or plunging into Arctic ice, but Steve tries not to think about that too often.) "We need to go."

Jack grimaces at Steve. "Sorry. I really do have to go."

Steve nods. It's all the goodbye he's willing to say, but he hopes Jack understands.

Jack gives him a small salute and steps into the blue box. And then, with a low groan and a whirring, mechanical sound, the box fades out of view.

When he comes back to Sam and Natasha, there's a heat still lingering in his cheeks.

"Your secret agent boyfriend is easy on the eyes," Natasha tells him. Her tone is light and teasing, a gentle mocking, but the heat reasserts itself in a rush.

—

**2018-2023 (a day somewhere near the start of five long years)**

Steve walks through the path of the warehouse that’s the new Avengers building. Or, well, what remains of the Avengers, most of them gone.

(Stop. Don’t think about that. Thinking isn’t going to help.)

The gravel crunches beneath his feet, the only sound in an otherwise-unnaturally-silent world. People are still holed up in their houses, not venturing out, for reasons Steve doesn’t quite understand. He himself is a masochist, walking out into the world he couldn’t save to see what Thanos (what the Avengers, what he) has done.

He’s so engrossed in his thought that he doesn’t hear the low, mechanical moan, or footsteps behind him, until whoever it is is almost right behind him.

He spins around, falling automatically into a fighting stance. There are looters and bandits, of course, and more than a few of them have made the mistake of trying to attack him. All of them have regretted it.

Except it’s not a bandit.

It’s Jack Harkness, bigger and bolder than he remembers, an unfamiliar look on his face Steve realizes a split second later is uncertainty. He’s come to a halt and is hovering, staring at Steve.

And he’s  _ alive _ .

With half the universe dead, Steve hadn’t dared to hope. But he’s alive, here, larger than life and so beautiful.

Steve crosses the distance between them and hugs him.

He’s not really a hugging person. But Jack is warm and comfortable and familiar for the few seconds Steve holds onto him before letting go, and suddenly Steve wants to cry. (It’s stupid, it’s entirely stupid, he hasn’t cried once during everything. But he  _ wants _ .)

“Hey.” Jack’s hand is on Steve’s face, and he’s  _ looking _ at him with an intensity that makes Steve shiver. “Steve.”

“You’re alive,” Steve breathes. It’s all he can think to say, all his mind is filled with. The glorious truth of Jack’s aliveness, the fact that he’s walking and talking and staring at Steve as if he’s an oasis on the horizon of a desert. “You’re not dead.” He wills the tears not to fall. He won’t cry. He won’t.

“Yes I am.” Jack sounds unhappy about that, Steve realizes with a jolt. And Steve can’t imagine the loneliness of immortality, and maybe it’d be better for Jack. But Jack’s alive, and Steve is selfishly glad for it, and wants Jack and the entire world to share his joy. “Turns out that being a fixed point also means that you can’t be erased even with the Infinity Stones.”

“A fixed point?” That’s something Steve’s never heard before, and he latches onto it.

Jack shakes his head sharply, a shooing motion. “Never mind. That’s not what I came for. Can I—there’s a park around here somewhere, right? Do you want to maybe come there with me?”

A park? But then Steve remembers the patch of grass and the thicket of trees ringing a small pond. Something he’d barely even noticed on his daily pilgrimages to the outside world. “Yeah.”

They walk in silence. At some point, Jack’s hand slips into Steve’s. Unexpected, but it’s nice. More than nice. The warmth of Jack’s hand is intoxicating, and Steve wants to grab onto him and never let go, never let him out of his sight again. 

There’s a bench right next to the pond. The entire area is deserted, so when Jack pulls Steve down, Steve moves closer to him than he normally would, so their bodies are pressed together. Not an unwelcome gesture, because Jack responds by putting his arm around Steve’s shoulder, pulling him even closer.

At length, Jack exhales. “Steve. I’m sorry.”

“Why?” Jack has nothing to be sorry for. He wasn’t the one did this, wasn’t the one who failed to stop this from happening. He’s entirely innocent in this mess, the mess that Thanos (that the Avengers, that he) created.

“I should’ve come sooner,” Jack says quietly. “I should have helped you. There was nothing I could have done to stop this, nothing anyone could have done, but I should have found you afterwards.”

“Nothing you could have done,” Steve agrees. Because there isn’t anything at all Jack could have done.

“Nothing anyone could have done,” Jack says gently, far more gentle than anything Steve can bear to hear.

“We could have stopped him,” Steve says. They had so many opportunities, so many chances they didn’t take. “I could have stopped him.”

“No you couldn’t.” Jack is frowning, and he’s tense against Steve, the muscles of his arm bunched up and tightened. “You couldn’t stop Thanos at that point, Steve, no-one could.”

“You weren’t there,” Steve says sharply, more sharply than he intends. “I didn’t let Vision destroy the Mind Stone. And then he died anyway, and everyone else with him, and  _ there was no point to anything I did _ .” He’s shaking, Steve realizes with horror, shaking and pressing himself against Jack’s side, and he knows that his anger’s coloring his voice. He drops his head down on Jack’s shoulder, blinking back the fierce sting of tears.

“If it helps,” Jack says quietly, “it doesn’t feel any better on the other side. The world was saved but I killed my grandson and I don’t think I’ll ever forget that.” He’s staring off into the distance, and from this angle Steve can see that the muscles of his throat are tightened.

But you saved the world, Steve thinks. He doesn’t say it out loud, but he thinks it.

Jack shrugs, looks down. “And it wouldn’t have helped in the end anyway. Thanos would have won no matter what you did.”

“No,” Steve says. He keeps his voice level only with great effort. “No, he wouldn’t have, Jack. You weren’t there.”

There’s something infinitely sad passing across Jack’s face. “I was born in the 51 st century, Steve. Thanos would have won, no matter what. It’s a fixed point.”

The revelation should be a surprise. The fact that Jack is a time traveler, that time travel exists. Or will exist. He should be incredulous, disbelieving, in shock. But he can focus on only one part of what Jack said. “We could have changed it. We should have changed it anyway.”

Jack presses his lips together for a moment. “It’s not as simple as that, Steve.”

“How can you  _ say _ that?” And, “If you knew, why didn’t you try to stop it?”

A breath. Then, “I did try.” It’s an admittance, made in a low voice only Steve can hear. “A friend—stopped me. He took me away and didn’t let me come back until now.”

Jack’s fingers are white-knuckled where they’re gripping the park bench. “I’m sorry,” Steve says. 

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for.” Jack sighs, tips his head back. 

There’s one question Steve needs to know the answer to, something he can’t resist asking. “Jack. Do we ever manage to get the people we lost back? Do we ever defeat Thanos?”

“I can’t tell you that.” Jack’s tone is regretful, but final. Steve knows he won’t get anything by pressing. “I’m sorry.”

Don’t apologize, Steve doesn’t say. He can’t say it. He watches, instead, a lone duck making its way across the surface of the pond, its small body sending ripples through the water almost in time with the rise and fall of Jack’s chest. Jack’s shoulder is warm and comfortable and despite everything he doesn’t want Jack to leave, as selfish and silly as that is.

Eventually, though, a grinding sound cuts through the silence, and Jack lets out a breath. “I have to go.”

“Yeah.” Steve detaches himself from Jack. He doesn’t say goodbye, though. Doesn’t want to. It feels to final.

But Jack smiles at Steve, suddenly, bright and sunny, the kind of smile Steve hasn’t seen anyone wearing in too long. Something in Steve’s chest loosens. “I’ll see you again, Steve. That’s a promise.” Then he bends down and gently kisses Steve’s forehead (his skin burns and tingles where Jack’s lips touch it), and steps into the blue phone box and disappears.

—

**Some indeterminate point in time**

The final Stone is back where it belongs. With a few minor tweaks to the timeline he tries not to think about, but it’s back where it belongs. (The Soul Stone, because he’d held out hope—but no. It didn’t work that way, apparently.) He’s got one last jump to make. 

He knows where to go. Where he should go. Back to the future, where Sam and Bucky and Bruce are waiting for him.

But he’s so, so tired of doing what he should do.

_ Peggy _ , he thinks. (And, almost guiltily, there’s a flash of a RAF greatcoat bursting across the corner of his mind. That’s—not relevant.) So he makes the changes. Prepares for the jump.

The particles shouldn’t malfunction. Shouldn’t be  _ able _ to malfunction.

And yet.

And yet.

What he was aiming for was SHIELD headquarters in DC, somewhere in the 1950s. Where he ended up—

There’s a too-familiar whistling noise overhead, then a loud explosion that’s near enough to make him jump and dive for cover. (Behind what looks like an old abandoned guard-hut, but.) The sky lights up every few seconds in an entirely unnatural way. The noise, though. The noise. He knows that noise. Lived with it for two years until it faded to a background hum, but it’s vivid and loud again for him.

_ Dammit.  _

He doesn’t even know  _ where _ he is. It’s entirely possible he’s behind enemy lines, in which case being caught in this uniform, with this face. Well. He doesn’t want to think about it.

First thing first, he decides. Move  _ into _ the guard-hut, get some cover, and—

And there’s a flash of a muzzle, and a cool American voice (a voice he almost-but-not-quite knows) saying, “Hands up where I can see you.”

Steve wants to swear. Instead, he says, with a calm he doesn’t feel (this is a nightmare all over again), “I’m American, don’t shoot.” He casts around for the code words he knew a lifetime ago, but they’re gone. And they were SSR code words in any case, not helpful when the man standing in front of him is probably Third Army, and infantry at that. But Captain America is well-know across all the forces in Europe. “If you could shine your flashlight on me—”

“If you move I’ll blow your head off,” the man threatens, but the next second there’s a flash of bright light that illuminates both their faces.

Illuminates a familiar face.

“ _ Jack _ ?”

And it  _ is  _ Jack, Steve realizes. Jack Harkness, in whatever year it is in the middle of World War Two.

At the same time, Jack says, “Captain Rogers? I had intelligence—you’re not supposed to be here.” But even as he speaks Jack pulls Steve into the hut by his elbow. Formalities, Steve remembers belatedly, don’t exist on this battlefield. 

“It’d help if I know where here is,” he says dryly. Or at least he hopes it comes out dry and not panicked. Because he’s sure as hell panicking right now, the entire world spinning around him.

“Just outside Paris,” Jack says slowly. His hand is, Steve thinks, at his service pistol again. Not that Steve can blame him, because—

“It’s the 24 th of August, isn’t it?” Of all the times to accidentally be landed near Paris by time travel.

“Yes?” There’s a question in Jack’s voice. “If you need to contact base, I can help you, but beyond that I’m afraid you shouldn’t really be here.”

“I know,” Steve says absently, “tomorrow’s going to be quite a mess, if everything goes the way I remember.” He’s not thinking about what he’s saying. All his thoughts are focused on the need to get  _ out _ of here, to leave before things go bad.

Except.

He’s suddenly being slammed into the wall by a body he knows must be Jack’s (and this isn’t quite how he’d imagined being slammed into a wall by Jack). “Who  _ are _ you?” 

Jack is strong. Jack is very very strong. His grip is iron, and Steve  _ could _ break it, but he’d end up hurting Jack too. He can’t bear to think of hurting Jack, not now. (Maybe not ever, but thinking about Natasha and Tony and it’s silly especially because it’s Jack, but he can’t ever ever—no. Not the time.) Too late, he remembers that Jack had introduced himself as James Harper, the first time. That, combined with the things Steve has said, is probably setting all sorts of alarms off in his head.

“You know me. You’ve met me.” He’s gasping for breath, a little. Jack’s elbows are digging into his ribs in a way that’s not comfortable at all. Even through the wool of his greatcoat they’re sharp and pointy. 

“I met you  _ once _ , in passing,” Jack snaps. And dammit, it’s 1944, isn’t it?

But Jack isn’t from 1944. Jack should know—

Unless they changed it too much. But Steve’s not going to think about that.

“Thanos,” he says. “We just killed him. And then I came back here.” He should say more. He’s grasping for words to explain about the Stones, about what he knows of Jack. 

But that, apparently, is enough for Jack. Thanos must be well-known in the 51 st century, because Jack lets go off Steve, lets Steve rub at his bruised ribcage. “Thanos, huh?”

“Yes.” Steve wants to explain, to tell Jack everything that’s happened. But this is ancient history for Jack. He already knows. “Jack—”

“You just took your first time travel baby steps.” Even in the dark, Steve knows Jack is smiling that odd, amused half-smile of his. “And I’m guessing you’re very confused by where you’ve ended up and who you’ve ended up with.”

“I wasn’t aiming for France right on the eve of the liberation of Paris, no.”

Jack huffs out a soft laugh. But he’s not stupid. Not even when he’s seventy-odd years younger than he was—will be?—when Steve knew (will know) him. “So you  _ were _ aiming for me?”

“Not exactly.” But he was thinking about Jack. These particles shouldn’t be sensitive to that, but. He’s not a scientist. “But not exactly not either.” It’s a confession. A confession to both Jack and himself, and he can feel his body tense all over with the effort of not running away or escaping to somewhere.

Jack exhales, and his hand settles slowly, slowly (giving time for Steve to move away, to pretend this is something else) on Steve’s cheek.

And that—

Steve shudders under the coolness of Jack’s hand, a thousand sparks of electricity arcing from the points their skin touches. It’s too much.

He launches himself forward and presses his mouth against Jack’s. It’s everything he ever wanted, a deep kiss that holds all of the tangle of the last decade’s emotions in it. And Jack—Jack just goes with it, swiping at Steve’s lips with his tongue, pressing his palm against Steve’s back to urge them closer together.

This, Steve thinks, is almost like coming home.

**Author's Note:**

> I accidentally a scene earlier, apologies about that.


End file.
